Mar 11 2023, 12:19 AM
It is here, somewhere, the magic that beckons her: and its pull is stronger than Ellie's, or else she would have immediately searched for her partner. It angers her for this reason, that it is somehow more important than her wife. Unknown and powerful. She could not resist it—no, that is not right. There was nothing to resist. It simply is, as if it had always been written that she would end up here, for this.
As she traverses the plants, her lip curls at the fungus which plagues them. Disgusting. She did not even know why she disliked it but the plants recoiled at her touch and likewise, she recoiled at theirs. With some struggle, she finds herself at twin pools, and beyond them, a small crevice where a skeletal hand beckons her closer. It hangs out of a shimmering rift, fingers curled over an upward-turned palm, the index finger continuously calling her closer. She obliges.
As she approaches, a chorus of whispers rises around her: The Wayfarer, The Traveler, The Storyteller, The Chronicler— names and titles suggesting the same things, whispers and wails reaching a deafening climax until it snaps to silence, uttering a final, quiet, The— and then, nothing.
It felt unfinished, like some final piece of an unknown puzzle lay just at the tip of her tongue, its name missing. It was hiding, absent, or otherwise just out of reach. Even the almighty—the UNFORGIVEN—banished beyond the known worlds and the End would think so too, that despite its power and knowledge, it felt absent and withheld. But it very much was not absent.
It is here and it is not here. It is the air, the rocks, the rivers; it is the blood that feeds the brain, is it the ink that fills the page; it is the—
a whisper, suggesting a name? or a title? it is unknown.
She realizes then that she is cold as her mind comes to, the scenery blanketed with snow. Against the treeline is the figure, two red eyes watching her from beneath its hood. It beckons her closer, still. She obliges. The closer she gets, the more distorted the image is.
It has a pile of clothes for her: furs and her beaded sash among them.
"These are mine," she says possessively, taking them like she is retrieving them from a thief, and piece by piece, she puts them on. Her pink eye lays steady on the lion-skull, suspicious and wary, but she knows she can trust it. It hands her something else. It is a... cape? Gradient orange meets white meets gradient pink. She holds it open. It is almost as tall as her. She twirls it over her shoulders and ties it at her collarbone.
"Thanks." Without knowing its true purpose, she liked it. It was her.
And as if she had always been, she is back in the cave, standing beside the twin pools of water but this time she is clothed and adorned with her new cape. She looks around for the figure but does not find it, only the dull and shifting realms of the rift it left behind. The urge that pulled her here felt fulfilled, and she sits against the wall to regain herself. She feels tired.
"Ellie," she breathes, her head lifting and her hand clutching the staff, perching it upright as if she is going to stand, but she tires easily and relaxes; the staff lays in the grass. "Ellie, come find me," she pleads, although she knows she does not have to. She can feel it: the movement.
The promise.
The Bond between @Eleanora and Lilith.
As she traverses the plants, her lip curls at the fungus which plagues them. Disgusting. She did not even know why she disliked it but the plants recoiled at her touch and likewise, she recoiled at theirs. With some struggle, she finds herself at twin pools, and beyond them, a small crevice where a skeletal hand beckons her closer. It hangs out of a shimmering rift, fingers curled over an upward-turned palm, the index finger continuously calling her closer. She obliges.
As she approaches, a chorus of whispers rises around her: The Wayfarer, The Traveler, The Storyteller, The Chronicler— names and titles suggesting the same things, whispers and wails reaching a deafening climax until it snaps to silence, uttering a final, quiet, The— and then, nothing.
It felt unfinished, like some final piece of an unknown puzzle lay just at the tip of her tongue, its name missing. It was hiding, absent, or otherwise just out of reach. Even the almighty—the UNFORGIVEN—banished beyond the known worlds and the End would think so too, that despite its power and knowledge, it felt absent and withheld. But it very much was not absent.
It is here and it is not here. It is the air, the rocks, the rivers; it is the blood that feeds the brain, is it the ink that fills the page; it is the—
a whisper, suggesting a name? or a title? it is unknown.
She realizes then that she is cold as her mind comes to, the scenery blanketed with snow. Against the treeline is the figure, two red eyes watching her from beneath its hood. It beckons her closer, still. She obliges. The closer she gets, the more distorted the image is.
It has a pile of clothes for her: furs and her beaded sash among them.
"These are mine," she says possessively, taking them like she is retrieving them from a thief, and piece by piece, she puts them on. Her pink eye lays steady on the lion-skull, suspicious and wary, but she knows she can trust it. It hands her something else. It is a... cape? Gradient orange meets white meets gradient pink. She holds it open. It is almost as tall as her. She twirls it over her shoulders and ties it at her collarbone.
"Thanks." Without knowing its true purpose, she liked it. It was her.
And as if she had always been, she is back in the cave, standing beside the twin pools of water but this time she is clothed and adorned with her new cape. She looks around for the figure but does not find it, only the dull and shifting realms of the rift it left behind. The urge that pulled her here felt fulfilled, and she sits against the wall to regain herself. She feels tired.
"Ellie," she breathes, her head lifting and her hand clutching the staff, perching it upright as if she is going to stand, but she tires easily and relaxes; the staff lays in the grass. "Ellie, come find me," she pleads, although she knows she does not have to. She can feel it: the movement.
The promise.
The Bond between @Eleanora and Lilith.
Lilith: The Corrupted Witch
(art by bunny!)